


Home Sweet Home

by Shippershape



Series: Stretch & Dr. Goodkin [32]
Category: Stitchers (TV)
Genre: Apartment hunting, Established Relationship, F/M, Moving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 16:14:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5749747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shippershape/pseuds/Shippershape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House hunting turns out to be a lot harder than Kirsten originally anticipated. </p><p>Written for a friend who was having a hard time settling into her new place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Sweet Home

“I don’t like it.”

Kirsten watches Cameron pacing around the surprisingly spacious living room, frowning.

“Why not?”

The question almost doesn’t matter. He’s found something to dislike about every place they’ve seen so far, from the size of the windows to the colour of the floors. The apartment they’re looking at now has cherry hardwood, cathedral windows, and more space than they’d know what to do with. But he has the same look on his face as he’s had for all the others. Disappointment.

“I…” He shrugs, eyes scanning the room, as though looking for a flaw he hasn’t found yet. His eyebrows go up, and he bends over to inspect the baseboards. “Look, see?”

She squats beside him, squinting at the wood.

“What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“The paint is peeling.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Cameron, you’re a neuroscientist. I have two degrees in computer science. I think we can handle re-painting some baseboards.”

“But it could be a sign that there are other problems. Like moisture in the apartment. Or dry rot” He argues, and Kirsten falls back on her heels, sitting down behind him.

“Okay.” She folds her arms across her chest, letting out a noise of frustration. “What’s going on with you?”

He turns around to blink at her, sitting with his back against the offending wall.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this place is perfect. It has everything on your wish list, which is a miracle considering how unreasonably long you made that list in the first place. And it’s still not enough? Just…” She scoots closer to him. “I know I’m not exactly Dr. Phil, but I know you. Something else is going on.”

He lets out a heavy sigh.

“It just…” He shrugs again. “It doesn’t feel like _home.”_

She stares at him, thinking. Generally, she’s the one being comforted. She isn’t good with the touchy-feely stuff, still doesn’t really understand it. Her temporal dysplasia means that she can’t always relate to the things Cameron is going through. Like now, for example. It doesn’t matter if she’s lived somewhere for a week or for five years. As soon as she hangs up her coat by the door, it’s home.

“You _wanted_ to look for a new place.” She reminds him. Then, softening her voice, “your building is being knocked down, we can’t stay there. And you said you don’t want to live at Ed’s so…”

She wants to point out that their only other option is to be homeless. But even she doesn’t think that will help. They’ve been together for two years, and now that Cameron’s place is being bulldozed to build condos, it seemed like a good excuse to move in together. She suddenly remembers something Ed used to say, about cold feet.

“Have you changed your mind?” She wonders suddenly. “About living together?” She isn’t a good roommate. Camille tells her that all the time. She’s messy, and loud at inappropriate times of day, and despite her previous policing of Camille, and occasionally takes showers that last an hour or longer. Maybe Cameron has finally tired of her after all. Her gaze travels his face, over the oversized frames she loves so much, the green eyes narrowed in displeasure, the strong jaw that she used to think was out of place on someone so nerdy. But then those eyes flit up to her face, widening.

“Wha-of course not!” He sputters. “Have you?” The surprise in his eyes is suddenly tinged with nerves.

“I’m not the one vetoing every decent place we come across.” She points out. His eyebrows furrow.

“Stretch, no. That’s not-” He leans forward catching her face in his hands, eyes darkening. “There’s nothing I want more than to wake up every morning to you, to know that every night I’ll come home and you’ll be here. Trust me.”

Her heart kicks in her chest. It does that a lot when Cameron looks at her like this. Her gaze flickers down to his lips.

“So,” she says, distracted by his proximity. “What are we going to do? If you can’t find a place you like, where-”

He cuts her off by kissing her, and she feels a familiar surge of heat the moment his lips touch hers. She’d thought that would go away after a while, just the spark of a new relationship. But if anything, it’s gotten stronger over the years, deeper. Just as her fingertips touch the hem of his shirt, he pulls away.

“This is an open house.” He says breathlessly. “We probably shouldn’t-”

“Probably not.” She pretends to agree. Although she’s not nearly as prudish as he is. She stands up, holding out her hand, and he takes it.

“This is fine.” He smiles at her, gesturing at the apartment. “I like it, it’s good. Let’s take it.”

There’s something missing, in his smile. She doesn’t get that swooping feeling in her stomach that she always does when he directs it at her. He’s lying. But she’s starting to realize that they’ll never find a place that he likes. She’s not sure exactly what he needs to make it feel like home, but she figures they probably won’t find it in the classifieds.

“Okay.” She gives his hand a squeeze, practically feeling his unhappiness seeping through her skin. It settles like a weight in her stomach. The smile she sends him feels as forced as his looks. “We’ll take it.”

-

Two weeks later, they’ve moved in. Or, more accurately, Cameron gets a text at his desk telling him that Kirsten has unpacked the last of their things, and they’re officially residents of the three bedroom apartment. The one he hates.

It’s not that the floors aren’t nice, because they are. And the walls are thick, the windows are big, the space is light and airy. It’s everything he wanted. But. He remembers the way he used to feel when his front door would close behind him at the end of the day. Safe. Protected. Home.

And he doesn’t feel any of that at the new place. It’s a quick drive from the lab, at least, so if he leaves now he can be there in fifteen minutes. With Kirsten. And that’s all that matters, really. Even if the rest of it doesn’t feel right. He’ll have her. So he grabs his phone and a couple briefs that he _knows_ aren’t supposed to leave the building (he’s actually invested in what he does, so sue him), and drives home. On the way, he tells himself that it will be good, at least, to have the boxes off the floor. They’ve been driving him crazy, and Kirsten knows that, and considering her general aversion to any kind of organization he’s suddenly struck by a wave of affection for her finishing the unpacking. It usually takes him a month or two, figuring out where things should go, but she just puts things places. The coffee table goes there, because it fits there. The bookshelf goes there, because there’s a wall there, and _come on Cameron, don’t be ridiculous, who puts a bookshelf in the middle of a room_. It’s refreshing.

So.

She’s certainly simplified the unpacking process.

He pulls up outside, feeling a tiny shadow of his old comfort at the light streaming out from their living room window a few stories above.

At least, he reminds himself, they’re unpacked. It’s something.

He swings open the door, plastering a smile on his face. And when he sees the apartment, it slides right off again.

It’s-well.

Unrecognizable.

Part of that is due to the lack of boxes everywhere, the hardwood now shining up at him from the foyer to the back wall. The walls have been painted, and maybe he hasn’t been here since they moved all the boxes in a week ago, but he can’t believe how different it looks. How much work has been done. The same blue from his old apartment covers the walls, his movie posters hung in exactly the same formation on the kitchen wall.

Dropping his keys, he moves slowly through the house, taking in the way his movies are aligned on the shelf, in _exactly_ the same order as before, a hybrid genre-director system he’s never really been able to explain to anyone. His eyes fall on a Blu-Ray, one of the Doctor Who specials, a case that sat out on the TV stand for weeks before the move, as though it had all come that way, exactly as it had been before, straight from the box.

“Stretch?”

“In here.”

He follows her voice into the bedroom, stopping in the doorway when he sees her.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, hair up in a messy bun, wearing his _Talk Nerdy To Me_ t-shirt.

She makes his heart stop.

Her eyes are buried in a book, something Fisher leant her a couple days ago about criminal profiling.

“Stretch.” He says again, quietly. She looks up. “What did you do?”

Her mouth opens, then closes. Something like uncertainty flashes over her features, an emotion he doesn’t see there very often.

“I unpacked.” She tells him. He walks over to the bed, taking the book from her hands and placing it on the bedside table. Which, he notices, is about exactly the same distance from the bed as before, even though the room is about twice as big as their last place. He sits beside her, cupping her cheek in his hand.

“You…how could you even remember all this?” He asks. “My books, the movie…they’re exactly the same.”

Her lips quirk, like he’s missing an inside joke.

“You know, for a neuroscientist, you really have a hard time with this whole-”

“Temporal dysplasia.” He cuts her off with a sigh. “Of course.”

Her face turns serious.

“I just wanted this to feel like home. And I don’t know what that means for you, but I just thought maybe if everything was exactly like it was before-”

“Kirsten-” He tries to say thank you, but it doesn’t seem like enough, because she doesn’t have any idea what she’s done, so instead he just kisses her.

She wraps her arms around him, shifting so that she’s sitting on his lap, and he falls back onto the bed. And the way she feels between his hands, against his skin, it’s the only home he’ll ever need.

-

Later, he twirls a strand of her hair around his finger, relishing the weight of her against his chest. She’s running her fingers along his scar like she often does, tenderly.

“It was stupid.”

She turns her head to look at him.

“What I said about it not feeling like home, it was stupid. You’re my home. You’re all I need.” He presses his lips against her forehead. She tastes like salt, and lust, and lavender shampoo. Her answering smile is soft and content.

“Me too.”

She’s not always great with words, but he can see that she means it, so it’s enough.

“Our place.” He says quietly, as they lay back.

“Mhmm. And I’m not moving again. It’s way too much work.” Kirsten mumbles through a yawn. “Seriously. We’re dying here.” Cameron’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You realize you just proposed, Ace.” He tells her, knowing she didn’t mean it.

“I did not.” She huffs, and he knows she’s rolling her eyes.

He can feel her beginning to drift off when he speaks again.

“Marry me.”

The words just come out, as unconsciously as breathing. Which, ironically, they both seem to stop doing immediately after.

“What?” She turns again, this time propping her arms up on her chest. He could take it back, but-

“You might not have meant it, but I do.” She looks so beautiful in the low light, hair an absolute disaster, eyes bright. “We already live together. I promise I won’t make you move again. And I-” He blows out a breath. “I want it. Forever. I want you, Stretch.”

For a moment, he’s sure he’s ruined it. She’s not good with being pushed, likes to take her time even if she doesn’t know exactly how long that is. She gets spooked.

“No more moving.” She repeats. His heart skips.

“Not unless you want to.”

 “And I don’t really want to convert to Judaism.”

He snorts.

“I don’t really want you to, either.”

She thinks about it, her fingers retracing their earlier path across his scar.

“Okay.”

He stares at her.

“Okay?”

She pushes herself up enough to press her lips against his.

“Let’s get married.” She murmurs, and he flips her onto her back, eliciting that impish smile of hers that makes his pulse spike.

“Let’s get married.” He agrees, grazing his teeth along her neck.

 

And they do, about six months later.

She never stops feeling like home.


End file.
